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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24732043">Moonsea</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/GothicSeer/pseuds/GothicSeer'>GothicSeer</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Annabelle HAS 6 arms. sexy spider wife, Dancing, F/F, I honestly have no idea what to tag this as but I am SO sad it isn't a larger ship, Lesbians, Monster wife rights!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:49:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,044</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24732043</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/GothicSeer/pseuds/GothicSeer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The puppet and the puppetmaster, woven together by a red thread in a dance under the light of the moon.</p><p>[ Title/theme inspired by Phildel's song, "Moonsea." ]</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Nikola Orsinov/Annabelle Cane</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Moonsea</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I haven't seen any content for Nikolannabelle previously so... here's a change to that. Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Bowing and shimmering, the trickle of wind tugged along a thread that glistened so dully, so vibrantly red under the moon’s embrace, its flow all but guideless, its intentions carrying along a twinkling laugh which cast itself downwards from its end woven curiously, tightly around a thin finger. </p><p>The string, so outcast from the shadows, knit itself around a figure dancing upon the gently lapping shores, her plastic arms scintillating under the glow of the sky above as they rose over her head, monstrous body falling into a twirl as if it were a wind-up ballerina. Her body shifted to a tune she knew so well, one that played within her head to no end, though now the world around her fell silent despite how easy it would be for her to light it up with the snap of a synthetic finger.</p><p>Raising the thread to her mouth, Annabelle softly blew down its length, the ribbon’s form rising higher within the night, end teasing itself around Nikola’s hand as it stitched itself between her fingers, the mannequin’s painted eyes catching sight of this as her thumb caressed its end, pressing it into her palm at an inhuman angle as the rest of its length drifted around her estranged self, rising and falling around her like the waves of a dress, like the footsteps of a ghost. </p><p>Clutching the ribbon, she did not dare to stop her motions but instead began to shift her dance with it, it not hindering her as it began to weave around her arms and legs, but instead, act as a guide to a new show; Nikola’s form dipped into a bow, then further lower as her arm and hand spun around a leg, the other casting itself high into the air as she purposefully tightened it around her ankle, or whatever semblance of one she had, rising from her position and backing away from its origins with several elegant, quick motions as a calling, or as a force, to draw the one who so spun a web around her form out of her hidden perch to complete their duet.</p><p>A gasp left Anabelle Cane’s lips as her form jolted forward from the tree branch she rested upon, her arm being pulled forward as her fingers closed around the edge of the thread, for only a fool would then let it go. Three pairs of arms moved in unison as she slid from her perch, though only her legs guided her forward in a returned ballet, curling the loose thread around the arm it already found itself home to like a skein to a blanket, like a spoon to an embroidered web. The red ribbon glistened against her dark skin, both gracefully reflecting the moonlight in unison just as their partner’s white plastic did the same, only muted by the reds of her ringmaster outfit.</p><p>One foot forward, a step in advance, breaching and pressing into the cool sand as the wind shuddered around their bodies, as the waves coated and fell away from bare feet and appendages. One hand entangled with the ribbon met a hand where the only sign of red was like a ring trailing from her finger, taking each other into an oddly desperate grasp, five hands aligning themselves with the all-too-perfect form of Nikola Orsinov, clutching it, caressing it, breaking from it as the opposing partners lead their duet in an odd dance of their own, one in which they were both the leaders, one in which they were both the followers. </p><p>They spun each other into dips, rising and falling in a silence that spoke volumes between the two, their motions speaking much more than their words ever could within that breathless moment. Under the moonlight, their bodies and casings shifted as one unit, reflecting it like an odd ghost that haunted the lonely beach, moved with odd motions that cast away their humanity for a new eloquence and melody, their shadows elongating and twisting around and into one another as a spider may weave its web, though within their singularity they were not one creator to what was being created, but a pair of seamstresses weaving a new home, a new relationship or love.</p><p>Clasping their hands together yet again, they rose high, ever-higher into the air as Nikola lead Annabelle into a dip, their forms bowing as their eyes, many or merely artificial, gazed into the other. The light glistened in response, the gentle breeze caressing their forms with droplets of water akin to morning dew just as the water swirled around their legs. Nikola tempted a teasing release of Annabelle’s body into the water to which she felt Annabelle’s grasp on her tighten, though temptation was an odd action that so often found itself fulfilled even when pressed as a strange joke.</p><p>Within the following moment, failing to allow a reaction of any sort, the duo toppled from their dance and into the shallow waters, Anabelle’s expression creasing with an odd mixture of distaste and betrayal, Nikola’s face washing away with the beating heart of the waves; neither were anything to be unexpected under the light of the moon nor in the flow of the sea, ever patterned to predict the other as a guide, as a direction that was set for years in advance spare if something should be so powerful as to interrupt one or the other. Their vast bodies met, singing and dancing to the tune of their own internal melody as a guide within fate and destiny, giving each other specific certainties, specific callings or rigid patterns to follow. </p><p>What an odd, true thing it was, then, that the two women, or not-so women, were united within the grasp of the two, following its flow as much as they followed their own, or not-quiet their own within their meeting and dance, within its fall and its united gaze, as Nikola shuffled upwards and offered out a hand towards Annabelle, her red thread still woven around the ringmaster as a web, still tied to her finger, as she accepted the hand and pulled herself upwards; a puppet to a puppetmaster yet guides to each other, yet dolls to a whole other force that gazed at them from above.</p>
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